


Your body is just a corpse waiting to happen, lemme bury it for you

by Mothwood, Plouton



Series: collect your blessings, hold them in your blood [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Assisted Self Harm, Cunnilingus, Grimmjow is bad with feelings also empathy also offering good coping advice, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Trans Ichigo, Trans Male Character, grimmjow has a cannibalism kink, grimmjow is a cannibal idk why we all keep forgetting this, i think they deserve it, ichigo has bad coping mechanisms, ichigo indulges it and he probably shouldnt, plz let the boys learn healthy coping mechanisms, reiatsu eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25273975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothwood/pseuds/Mothwood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plouton/pseuds/Plouton
Summary: In which Ichigo comes to an unpleasant realization about the state of his meatsack body and Grimmjow actually prevents a homicide for once in his life.Sequel to: I DON'T HAVE A TITLE - and you don't have a heart, so here we are in a cold cold room with nothing but the moonlight
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Series: collect your blessings, hold them in your blood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831036
Comments: 23
Kudos: 200





	Your body is just a corpse waiting to happen, lemme bury it for you

Grimmjow cocks his head to the side, weight balanced on his toes and heels resting against the thin pane of glass blocking off Kurosaki’s den from the rest of the human world. Grimmjow thinks it's a shitty den. The fact that you can see right out into the street and thus, from the street into the room offers no secrecy or security. The walls are stupidly thin.

He knows it's technically _not_ a den at all, much more similar to the rooms they were issued back in Las Noches before Hallibel took over. It’s less barren though. He’s never really taken much time to notice all the shit everywhere really. Never noticed the room much at all. The scent of death and decay usually kept him contained to the windowsill, or on the covers of the bed once or twice. Four times. Who’s counting really. 

Until a couple of weeks ago he had been quite curious about the smell, a smell that is conspicuously absent today. In fact, the room doesn’t smell like Ichigo’s shoved his corpse out onto the floor in _days,_ and Grimmjow is a very big fan of this new development. 

Grimmjow rocks his weight to the side just barely. Blue eyes trail along the ginger shinigami from his face down to his throat, where Grimmjow can see the slight pulse under the skin, then down further to where Ichigo’s hand is tapping bitten nails against the wood of his desk. Grimmjow can’t spot a single flaw. 

He grins, just on the flirty side of mean, “finally swapped that corpse out for a chance to hop in bed with me, ay Kurosaki?”

"What?" Ichigo squints, confused, at the arrancar looming in his windowsill (again. Ichigo lives in hope that one day he'll actually knock on the glass before shoving his way through), one arm already inside the sleeve of the sweater he was pulling over his pajamas and tapping an absent rhythm on his desk as he threads through the other sleeve. He's only half paying attention to Grimmjow, trying to read through a chapter of his textbook. It's getting cold out, these days. "I didn't--I didn't get a fake body. I-" He pauses, looks down at himself. Something sick and fetid curls in his throat and under his tongue. 

He lifts his free hand up to his right earlobe, presses his fingers over the hypertrophic scar he gave himself when he was thirteen and decided to pierce his own ear. The hole is still there; sometimes he puts a hoop through it. Next he feels over his ribs through his shirt, the sensation of fabric pressing against thinly raised lines of scar tissue. He tugs at his waistband a little, stares at the freckles on his hip. 

"Oh. Oh fuck." He drops the fabric abruptly, icy fingers grabbing his badge off his desk, and he shoves it into the pocket of his sweats. "Move Grimmjow, get- get out of the window. I need to-" He's going to commit murder. There's something cold and calm across his face, and it feels heavier than his hollow mask ever did. Tastes like death and sickness and _a betrayal of trust_. He scrambles up onto his bed and goes to push at the arrancar's chest to get him out of the way. His hands are shaking, he notes, distantly.

Grimmjow snarls back reflexively in the face of such open hostility. It’s not abnormal for a hollow to go from peaceable to aggressive in mere moments and Grimmjow is always on his toes, hyper paranoid that if he drops his guard even for a second he might get munched on by something bigger. Even now when he is arguably the strongest thing _in_ Hueco Mundo, the reflex hasn’t faded. 

“Back the fuck off Kurosaki,” Grimmjow slaps his hands away and starts a bit when he realizes there is no force behind Ichigo’s movements at all, simply a desperate need to pass him. He can catch the scent of bitter panic in the air easily and his brow furrows, lips tugging down into a thin frown.

He steps out of the window and grabs at Kurosaki’s wrists, holding his hands down and away from himself, “Kurosaki. Stop.”

Ichigo's breath hitches uncomfortably in his chest as Grimmjow steps down in front of him, and his vision tunnels in on blue eyes and the white of the jawbone mask as his wrists are grabbed and his hands moved without his permission. He shudders, but there's something heavy keeping him from even _attempting_ to break the hold, and instead he just sways slightly, wide eyed. 

"Let me go." He breathes, and it comes out weak. He's not _weak._ He tries again, but it sounds the same--"Let me go, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow stares down the straight line of his nose at the shinigami, eyes hard and cold. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Kurosaki didn’t take well to being told his body was fucked with. Grimmjow sorta thought the brat would be used to it by now. But he looks small and terrified, his eyes too wide and his voice wobbly and brittle. He’s trembling under Grimmjow’s hands. 

He didn’t realize Kisuke hadn’t told Ichigo. But then again, the bastard is cagey at the best of times, side effect of growing up in an assassins household, Grimmjow gathered, and hadn’t that been an expensive piece of information to weedle out of the man.

“As hot as it would be to watch you dismember Kisuke in a fit of destructive rage, you need to stop.”

Grimmjow gets it. He understands _exactly_ what it's like to have someone take your body and _change_ it on you without your consent. He knows viscerally how violating it feels - the slow growing horror when you find out it doesn't work the same way the old one did - he gets it.

But also, "You were dying. Already dead. Just too stupid to realize it yourself."

Ichigo flinches back, abrupt and violent, and his eyes drop down instead. He can't look at Grimmjow. He can't. He can feel pressure building up in his chest, a physical force, a swelling, impotent fury expanding from his heart outwards. 

"He took it. He just _took_ it. He didn't tell me. I can't - do you think he buried it next to my mother? No. No, he probably just- fuck, burned it. Disposed of it somewhere. It's just _meat._ " He's breathing too quickly, the beginnings of hyperventilation. His father had made it clear to all three of his kids how important your behaviour was when dealing with someone having a panic attack. Don't touch without permission. Ask for nods or shakes of the head instead of forcing them to be verbal. Keep other people at a safe distance. Reduce scrutiny. He's never been on the other side of that, before. 

Ichigo wants to yank himself away and run and run and run, but he can't make himself move. It's _his body._ It was _his body._ He didn't even notice. How could he not _know?_ How did it slip past him? Nearly two decades inhabiting it, and _Grimmjow_ was the one to realise it was- what. Dying? Ichigo knows it was dying. Every time he got in and out. He'd feel his heart start up all over again. Frozen air, muscles going stiff. Heavy. So heavy. 

He's had enough nightmares about getting back inside it and instead of waking up it just keeps dying around him. 

But he didn't notice that this one was fake. Grimmjow is right, he is _stupid_. Where's the original? Where's his body? The one his _mother_ made. The one he-

"It's mine," he breathes, his whole body is shaking, he thinks. His vision is sharp and directed at the blankets he's standing on. He thinks if it tunnels any further he won't be able to see at all. "-It's _my_ corpse." 

Grimmjow doesn’t _do_ panic. He doesn’t do much of any feelings really, except rage, irritation, and smug satisfaction. He’s getting better, trying harder maybe, now that he’s spending so much time around humans but he’s still not exactly what he’d call an expert.

He growls again, lips pulling back to bare sharp canines and his reiatsu shoves harshly over Ichigo’s skin. Ichigo doesn’t even have the courtesy to panic like a normal hollow where they go all aggressive and Grimmjow can just pin them down and growl at them until they go nice and pliant and edible. Grimmjow’s not even sure if Ichigo has those instincts at all. 

Fuck it if he isn’t going to try though. 

He hooks a foot behind Ichigo’s ankle and pulls, shoving him roughly at the same time and twisting their weight so that Ichigo lands on his back on the bed instead of on the floor, Grimmjow follows him down, his weight sprawling across Ichigo’s in a steady pressure and he shoves his nose under the boy’s jaw, face turned so his mask won’t pinch, and latches his teeth lightly over Ichigo’s trachea. It’s a threat that would send 100% of hollow’s to lalaland, submissive survival instincts kicking into high gear. 

Still, he doesn’t actually want to _scare_ the brat, just intimidate him into silence, so he shoves Ichigo’s hands together over his head so he can pin his wrists with only a single hand and uses the other one to do that thing Nel always does when she’s comforting people and drags it through Ichigo’s mess of hair. 

Absently he notes that Kisuke did a really good job. Even the hair feels the same. 

Ichigo goes stiff and still and _silent_. Even his thoughts stutter, brutal shock hitting him as soon as _he_ hits the mattress. Absently he notes that most of it is coming from Zangetsu. Hollow instinct, in the face of a predator up against such a vulnerable, exposed spot-

And then Grimmjow's hand runs through his hair. But it's not his hair. It's a gigai. This isn't his body. It's a copy. It's _wrong,_ and he thought he'd finally gotten over that, he thought maybe he'd settled into his own skin. Maybe he could move past the issues he had with himself, the way he slouches past mirrors and tries not to look at his reflection in store front windows as he walks by. 

He doesn't even know what he was doing. He was going to throw himself out his window and leave this body using the badge in his pocket and maybe the gigai would break on the ground below. Strangle Kisuke slowly, crush Benihime into shards with his bare fingers. Burn down the fucking Shoten. One too many times he's been pushed around and left utterly in the dark about consequences he'd never considered, because no one ever wants to tell him how this all _works._

It's the hand in his hair that makes him cry. Hitching little breaths and he squeezes his eyes shut, and he's still shaking underneath Grimmjow, the tears leaking out past the clench of his eyelids, down the sides of his face. He's quiet, not exactly sobbing, just soft little hiccups for air as his chest shudders violently, rough and stuttering. 

Grimmjow waits until he’s sure Ichigo isn’t going to struggle before he unlatches his teeth and licks one broad stroke across the small indents left behind. He lifts his head to stare down at Ichigo. 

Crying… might be worse then panic. Grimmjow’s never fucking cried in his life. He doesn’t even know how to make it stop. Di Roy cried one time and Grimmjow brought him food, which didn’t really _help_ but it did distract him. 

“He was trying to help,” he says, gruff and to the point, “your body had been dying for a long time and you kept ignoring it. Why’d you think I was sniffin’ around here anyway?”

The hollow sword in Ichigo's head uncurls, hisses low and unimpressed. _I'd never let it die. Would've kept it going just fine. Always did before. Not too much reiatsu. Just enough to fix it all up again. I'm good at it. Bastard had no reason to interfere._

Ichigo opens his eyes slowly, lashes sticking together in wet clumps, and his head is _pounding,_ teeth grit tightly together. He has to unclench his jaw before he can speak, rolls his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Flexes his fingers and hands but his wrists are firmly pressed down. 

"You don't know _shit_ Jeagerjaquez." It's a snarl, even though the tears are still coming and his vision is blurry with them. The tunnelling is gone, at least. That's something to be grateful for. He believes the hollow in his head. Believes gold on black eyes and a blue tongue. "You couldn't find a damn thing wrong with it after I got back in it."

Grimmjow presses his weight down steadily for a second, pushing at Ichigo’s wrists in warning, but his hand doesn’t stop stroking through Ichigo’s hair. The harsh edge of his reiatsu has receded but he maintains its pressure in case Ichigo decides he wants to try for Grimmjow’s throat.

“You smelled fetid.” He leans further over Ichigo, mere inches from the boy's sneering expression and snarls back, “you smelled _dead_ , and then you crawled back into your own goddamned _corpse_ and somehow you and your unnatural fucking healing factor fixed you up. What the fuck would you do if it didn’t, huh? Just lay there stuck in a body that won’t move while your insides melt?”

“Doesn’t _matter_ what I _would have done_ because it fucking worked, didn’t it?” Ichigo hisses, and then bites down hard on his own tongue. His eyes flick away again, and he scolds himself for being unable to keep his gaze on Grimmjow. He’s still _so angry._ Not at Grimmjow, though, not really. The ex-espada's reiatsu is a solemn pressure. Weighs him down even more effectively than the actual man above him. 

The tears won’t stop, and he turns his face, rubbing his cheek against the blankets; warning bells go off when he exposes his neck even further to the man above him but he ignores them, twists the other way to repeat the motion with the other side of his face. What happens when a gigai dies, anyway? Is the soul expelled, or stuck in it? If Grimmjow won’t let him leave the body with his badge, maybe he can coax the arrancar into biting its throat out in _rage_.

Grimmjow snarls again, frustration a searing handprint over the back of his neck. “It worked until it _didn’t._ You really think Kisuke gets his rocks off _body snatching?”_

His hand fists in Ichigo’s hair, wrenching the boy's head back around to face him. “Fucking look at me!”

Ichigo growls low in his chest, has a moment of disconnect when the sound comes out more hollow than his human body should allow, and it deepens into something close to disassociation when having his hair yanked also elicits the same pain-pleasure he's used to. He immediately hates it. 

"Fuck off! I don't care what he gets off on, he's fucked me over for the _last_ fucking time!" He manages to temper his voice into a snarling hiss instead of the angry howl it wants to be; doesn't need his family bursting in. Fuck, Isshin probably _helped_ Kisuke do this. He bares his teeth up at Grimmjow, defiant, and refuses to meet his gaze out of sheer spite. 

Grimmjow rears back, sitting across Ichigo’s stomach rather than lying on top of him and cracks a fist across Ichigo’s cheek, snapping his head to the side with brutal force. He still remembers to pull his punch enough so he doesn't shatter the fragile fucker's cheek. Maybe he should have, just to remind Kurosaki who the hell he’s dealing with. 

Ichigo sees stars burst across his vision, and his tongue and cheek bleed heavily into his mouth where his teeth snapped shut on delicate flesh. _It's not his blood, not his flesh, the inevitable bruise isn't his either._ His cheek _aches._ He swallows the metallic liquid down automatically.

“Fucking fine. You wanna go murder Kisuke for helping your dumb ass, that’s not my problem.” He releases Ichigo’s wrists with one more shove and then slides off of him, hand dropping to fist in Ichigo’s shirt and hauling the stunned boy bodily towards the window.

Ichigo fumbles at Grimmjow's wrist, now that his hands have been freed, and smacks at the hollow's shoulder insistently, but he feels like fucking jelly. He gasps a little, blinks and digs his heels into the bed to try and make it a little harder to drag him. 

He lifts one hand from where it's trying to peel Grimmjow's fingers apart, (useless, they're like the steel jaws of a bear trap on his shirt) and wipes the back of his knuckles across his mouth when blood seeps over his lips and tries to make its way down his chin. Oh. His badge. He forgot about it, for a second there. 

He shoves his hand into his pocket, pulls it out and presses it under where Grimmjow has a grip on him, and he lurches out of the body. He feels better almost _immediately._ Less trapped. Safer. Not confined in something that isn't right, that he can't escape. The gigai falls limp and heavy in Grimmjow's grasp and Ichigo steps backwards quickly, off the bed and onto the floor of his bedroom. 

“What you don’t want to fucking go now? You wanna gut someone for fucking helping your ungrateful ass or not? Go!” Grimmjow swings his arm out at the window, dragging the body with the motion - forgetting for a second that it’s still in his grip, now lifeless and as dead as the corpse - he stares at it for a moment. He’s so far out of his depth. 

Never in a million years did he think he’d ever be standing in a human’s room with a handful of body arguing over… Nothing. Not a damn thing. 

Wild blue eyes flicker up to Ichigo’s, darting across the savage look on his face, the damp cheeks and red rimmed eyes. A face of rage that Grimmjow recognizes well. He wears the same curl in his lips, the same pinch between his brows, and the scrunch at his nose that Ichigo does now when he’s frenzied. When he’s lost, scared, and confused. 

He defaults, emotions he doesn’t have the range to process properly crumple and burn around him until all his rage is used up and he’s numb and empty. 

Tch. Shit. 

He glances back at the body in his hand, the growing frustration and anger seeping out of him slowly with his epiphany. He breaths a quiet sigh, shakes his head in a short jerky motion and moves to carefully lower the body back onto the mattress. It’s limbs sprawl awkwardly at first, dead weight pulling joints in odd directions and Grimmjow barely thinks before readjusting them, straightening out his arms and legs and shoving the pillow under its head so that it doesn’t have a kink when Ichigo decides to climb back into it. He considers it for a short moment before pulling the blanket folded at the end of the bed, now rumpled after their tussle, up over the vessel too.

Then he turns and tears the air open, the garganta forming neatly at his side, and narrowed his eyes, “You need to get some rage outta your system. Fine. I’ll kick your ass up and down Hueco Mundo until you feel better.”

Ichigo stares blankly as Grimmjow--what. Arranges the gigai neatly on the bed? It's not quite that. He's being careful, considerate. Ichigo can't decide if he hates it, or if it's oddly reassuring. 

The tension in his shoulders fails him abruptly and he slumps, posture curling inwards. He doesn't feel strong or angry. Not really. He just feels _achy_ and _weak_ and hurting. He doesn't want to fight. He wants to scream and scream and pull his hair out and throw himself into a sprint that never stops. How can he possibly enjoy fighting Grimmjow when he feels like this? Hollowed out and filled up with pain. 

"He had _no right_." He manages, instead, hands curling in and out of white knuckled fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palm. The gigai looks just like him. There's even the red line on his chin from where he caught himself with the ragged edge of one of his nails scratching an itch the other day. It moves the same way. Feels the same. After all he's done for Urahara, the _least_ he's owed is the right to be _told_ that his body is being replaced.

He doesn't actually know how Kisuke _makes_ gigai. Did he have to examine every facet of Ichigo's actual body to make the replica? Did he just dump it in a box with a ton of kido spells and the gigai made itself? He doesn't know. Either are plausible. And nauseating. At least out of the body he knows he's _himself._

The rest of the aggression drains out of his body like blood from a wound and he flicks his eyes to the garganta. "I don't want to."

Grimmjow holds it open for another moment, then lets it snap shut with a sound like metal grating on metal and steps forward back into Ichigo’s space. “Ok.” 

Fighting helps Grimmjow. It grounds him and reminds him of the _one_ thing he’s good at. Reminds him who he is, even if the world goes to shit around him. 

Kurosaki isn’t the same as him and he’s not going to judge him for that. Tentatively he steps forward again and slings an arm over Ichigo’s shoulders. Not quite a hug, (he’s pretty sure Ichigo wouldn’t appreciate that) but enough physical contact to serve as an anchor. “What do you want.”

Ichigo breathes out slowly, blinks at how much better he feels just at the weight of Grimmjow's arm pressing him down. He's still here. He's here, and he can be touched, and-

He swallows roughly, turns his head a little and peers at the ex-espada's face. It's the closest to _soft_ he's ever heard Grimmjow _sound_ and it catches him a bit off guard. Confused. How bad must he look, if the most aggressive person he knows is offering something other than harsh words and violence? He chews on his tongue again. He left the bleeding slices from his teeth and Grimmjow's punch behind, in the gigai. What does he want? 

He wants a lot of things. A full night's sleep. Kisuke's head on a silver platter for him to kick like a soccer ball into the sun. Some goddamn respect and care from the people who were supposed to be the adults in his life. It's a slow sort of creeping misery, really. He has to learn to stop trusting. 

"I don't know. Want to bleed, but don't want to fight." The pain is grounding. Feels like some sort of offering, letting himself go, all crimson and freeing. His ribs twinge in sense-memory. 

Grimmjow cocks his head to the side, thinks of the marks on his own arm that he doesn’t remember receiving. 

He’s pretty sure humans aren’t supposed to crave pain. Especially not someone like Kurosaki, with his perfect family and his perfect friends. But who’s Grimmjow to deny him.

“Do you want me to hurt you… or do you want to hurt yourself.” 

Ichigo starts, a little, eyes wide, brows pulling together. Turns slightly, not enough to throw Grimmjow's arm off his shoulder, but enough to face him properly. It's not the reaction he was expecting. He was resigned to disgust. A little derision, too. Something like that. A sneer. Being called a coward. 

"You'd do that?" He probably shouldn't sound that relieved, that hopeful. God, he's so fucked up. 

Grimmjow stares at him blankly. He has wanted nothing more since he met the bastard then to see him bleed that pretty human red all over himself and hear those tiny hitching gasps leave struggling lungs and to taste the sweat and copper on his skin. Grimmjow _salivates_ over the thought of shearing his teeth through the thin layer of meat in Ichigo’s neck to reach the hot, pumping, carotid and lap him up, drink him down until there’s nothing left. 

He has to swallow, tongue licking dry teeth before speaking. His fingers twist in the black fabric across Ichigo’s back and he steps just barely closer, looking down on Ichigo. His voice is a little gravely when it comes out, “You want me to bite you? Or carve you up.”

Ichigo's pupils dilate slightly. He lifts his hands, slow, so that Grimmjow doesn't think they're a threat, and delicately presses his fingers into his lips, pushes the upper lip away from sharp teeth for a moment. Something swoops low in his stomach and he feels like the floor has dropped out from under him. 

"How hard can you bite?" He asks, pulls his fingers back away. 

Grimmjow meets his gaze evenly and barely nips at the pads of Ichigo’s fingers. “Dunno. All the way through.”

Ichigo rolls his left sleeve up immediately, and his mouth feels dry. Anticipatory. "Don't go all the way through. And don't tear out a mouthful either." But otherwise, do what you want, he thinks, and offers the inside of his forearm like you would offer meat to a stray animal you're trying to coax closer. 

Grimmjow eyes up the unmarred flesh, his free hand reaching out to wrap around Ichigo’s wrist, squeezing experimentally. The hand over Ichigo’s shoulders slips free, to wrap around Ichigo's arm at his elbow, guiding his arm up to his mouth. 

“This is helping?” he asks, just to confirm, but his attention is already transfixed, lips already brushing against smooth skin as his gaze jumps up to meet Ichigo’s honey brown eyes. Distantly he realizes that there’s other places he’d much rather be putting his mouth, but the flesh of Ichigo’s arm is a close… fifth, maybe. Sixth?

"It's helping," Ichigo breathes out, and his gaze flicks between blue eyes and Grimmjow's mouth. _Do it. Bite._ He digs his own teeth into his lower lip gently, and his fingers flex slightly, but he doesn't pull away despite the thrill of adrenaline that sings along his spine when lips touch against his skin. 

Grimmjow doesn’t hesitate a second time. His lips and teeth part for an agonizing second before he’s leaning forward to sink into the untouched skin. He presses down, slowly at first, the blunt human-like teeth in the front of his mouth digging little divots into the skin before it gives with a _pop pop pop pop_ under his razor sharp canines, four little wells of blood immediately flooding into his mouth and his tongue sweeps across Ichigo’s arm to catch the coppery droplets.

He forces his eyes open from where they fluttered shut, trained on Ichigo for the first sign of discomfort. He can’t quite suppress the little groan that leaves his throat - muffled as it is by Ichigo’s arm; and he bites harder. 

It _hurts_ , dull pressure and then the sharp _give_ of his skin under fangs. Ichigo sinks into it, let's it carry the swirling thoughts and ugly emotions down and away, replaced by bright pain. He can feel himself relax completely, tension draining out of his body, and he closes his eyes, furrowed brow smoothing out in something close to bliss. It's more calming than he remembers, but maybe it's just because he's not doing it to himself. (He hasn't hurt himself since his father caught him in the side with a surprise attack and opened up a series of healing lines. They'd bled through his shirt in neat stripes before the fabric soaked it up and they blossomed out. Isshin had gone very very pale when he'd seen, and Ichigo had turned around and gone right back up to his room. They never spoke about it.)

It takes effort to open his eyes again, a well trained response to pain when not in a fight. Calm. Glorious. Soothing. He offers Grimmjow a smile, small and secretive, and wonders how fucked up he really is. This shouldn't be so _good._

It takes more effort than Grimmjow will admit to to let go. To let go and step _back_ (one step is all he can manage) instead of rushing forward to rip into something that’ll bleed _more_. 

He’s meticulous when he licks across his teeth, fingers wiping at the corners of his mouth before they dip between his lips and he can hollow his cheeks and suck the remnants off.

“Better?” He finally asks when he’s sure there’s nothing left of the sugarsweet blood on his lips.

Ichigo flexes his fingers slightly, shifts and examines the bite, presses his right hand along the deep indents and gouges sharp teeth left behind. He pries one further open, hisses at the sting, and then lifts his gaze back to Grimmjow. "Would you do it again? Just once more. Please," He adds on the last word, because it feels a lot like a demand rather than a request. His brain feels nice and empty of anything other than damaged skin and copper scented air. 

He's really never had much of a drive for self preservation, as far back as he can remember, but if he'd ever had one, Urahara wouldn't have had a very good pawn. So, perhaps, it's not only natural, but trained into him. He doesn't care- he hasn't felt this good since he got rid of the little blade he used to keep in his dresser drawer along with antiseptic and bandaids. There's a different glee to be found when he's injured in one of the sprawling fights Grimmjow drags him into weekly. This feels more like giving up, and he revels in it. Something forbidden, about that. 

He should feel afraid that Grimmjow is sucking his blood off his fingers. Instead he offers his wrist, taps it with his index finger. It smears crimson on his skin from where he touched the bite. "Or- my shoulder, if you'd prefer?"

He doesn't know exactly what he's offering, but as long as it's not too close to his neck, he'll be able to hide it just fine with his shihakusho. He wonders if Grimmjow even _has_ a preference as to where he bites. There must be _something_ enjoyable about his blood, or he wouldn't have cleaned himself up like that to get the last of it; maybe hollows have extra, or altered, tastebuds. Absently he lifts his right hand and taps a finger against his tongue, left arm still outstretched. 

It just tastes like metal to him. Maybe it would taste different if he called up the mask. He doesn't care enough to try. 

Grimmjow should tell him ‘no’. He really _really_ should, because if he keeps going-- His eyes widen as Ichigo lifts his finger to his mouth and his control snaps like a band pulled too taut. He surges forward, hands grasping at Ichigo’s wrists and shoving the smaller man into a stumble backwards until they collide with the wall, closet, whatever. Fuck if Grimmjow cares right now. 

The body under him gives out a woosh of breath and Grimmjow is already shifting again, first turning his head to run his tongue in a flat broad stroke across Ichigo’s bleeding arm as he tugs the fabric away from the boy’s neck with his other hand - _neck! Ichigo’s going to let him at his shoulder, only inches away from those juicy pulsating veins and arteries Grimmjow has literally given an arm for the mere chance to rip into._

Grimmjow practically chokes on the air as he hovers, poised over the unblemished skin, pupils blown and fingers tightening their hold in the black fabric and against Ichigo’s wrist. His mouth floods with saliva and he has to swallow thickly around it. His first touch of the proffered shoulder is with the barest tip of his tongue, a kitten lick to slightly salty skin and Grimmjow can already _taste_ how sweet he’ll be in his mouth, lashes fluttering shut so he can focus all his attention on Ichigo’s taste. 

Ichigo's free hand comes up to press at Grimmjow's chest automatically, and Zangetsu presses uncomfortably into his back and shoulder where he's shoved up against his closet. He blinks, a little, then inhales sharply when the taller man leans _dangerously_ close, but despite the warning signs howling in his mind and along his spine like starving wolves, he tilts his head and bares his neck a little, gives Grimmjow more room along his shoulder. The first little press of the arancar's tongue makes him shiver, and the bite on his arm pulses in the wake of it.

"Shit, give me some _warning._ " He hisses, but his cheeks feel hot and he's pliant and _willing._ He shouldn't be. He flexes his fingers, against the black fabric of the jumpsuit and the border of that _stupid_ crop jacket. He hates it. The source of so many convoluted teen emotions. (It's possibly one of his favourite pieces of clothing, and it doesn't even belong to him.) 

And then Grimmjow is pressing in against his shoulder and he's- _anticipating,_ waiting. He can be patient, (let Grimmjow play with his food. If he goes too far the short blade on Ichigo's hip is right there ready to come to his hand and find a home between ribs.)

Grimmjow feels Ichigo tense, relax, tense again, and then relax, even as his fingers drop to caress the short sword at his side, an after thought of security, as if Grimmjow couldn’t simply tear out his jugular right now and have him bleeding and dead before the brat can skewer him. 

Grimmjow doesn’t wait for permission. He sees no reason to, after Ichigo practically _offered_ himself, and when his teeth, animal fanged and sharp enough to shear bone, sink through the coiled muscles of Ichigo’s trapezius, Grimmjow _moans_ his appreciation; fingers flexing in their hold before he’s shoving harder, crowding Ichigo fully against the wall and savouring the rush of copper and reiatsu down his greedy throat. 

Ichigo's eyes fall shut, the dim light of the room fading out with the squeeze of his lids, red blooming behind them in bursting spots. 

He feels trapped, small and half-smothered by Grimmjow's height and broad shoulders and grip. It's a good feeling, in an odd, submissive way, the half-dead part of him that still wants to be held down and protected and hidden by someone. He thought he'd fully destroyed it years ago, but it's still there, insidious and _needy._ Pathetic. 

There's a visceral kind of fear response that comes with sharp, long teeth slamming through his skin and then deep into muscle. He wants to scream and shove Grimmjow off of him, even though it would just drag the bite along and gouge out a chunk of him. He needs the _majority_ of his blood inside his body. 

Instead, Ichigo echoes the muffled moan, curls his fingers tight on Zangetsu's hilt at his side and then releases it, and his hand finds Grimmjow's hair instead. The bite _burns_ , and his grip spasms with the pain, tugging lightly at soft blue strands before dragging closer, and he presses the taller man tighter against him. Pushes teeth just that little bit deeper, _encouraging_. It makes his mind go a fizzy sort of soda-pop white. He feels floaty, his heart racing, and oh fuck. Fuck, this is doing it for him. His knees go a little weak, and heat pools low in his gut.

Ichigo shivers and twists the hand that isn't occupied at the back of Grimmjow's head, his knuckles pressing against wood as he rolls his wrist, and the arrancar really is thorough in his pin; seemingly intent on pressing Ichigo as tightly against the closet door as physically possible. It'd be flattering, the sheer _possessiveness_ is - it's _something_ , but Grimmjow doesn't see him as anything more than rival-prey-food, and playing this game is dangerous. And yet, he can't bring himself to care. The pain feels good, _so good,_ sharper and more dangerous than anything he could do himself, more deadly, a higher adrenaline rush. He wonders if it'll leave scars, or if the instant regen he has will bubble up as soon as he pulls on his hollow aspects after this- maybe if he just gets back into his body instead of actually trying to heal, they'll seal up slow and leave scars and he'll be able to touch them and _remember_ -

But it's not _his body_ he'd be getting back into. He jerks away from that thought like he's been burned, hyper focuses on the way Grimmjow's spine arches, head angled down to latch onto him, the way his jaw grinds tighter and tighter and the cat teeth on the outside of his cheek are starting to break skin too. Double bite, he muses, a little deliriously, but not quite. Broken mask-teeth. He thinks, absently, that he's probably asking quite a lot from Grimmjow. Asking for him to have some self control, then offering up a feast on a silver platter, and telling him only to take small portions. Not to gorge himself on the whole thing.

It's sort of a terrifying analogy, but he doesn't get to linger on it, because he becomes aware instead of the pull and drag on his reiatsu where it pools around the newest bite and Grimmjow breathes it _in_. Such tiny amounts. Ichigo wouldn't have even _noticed,_ if it wasn't so close to his throat. 

"Thank you," he manages, but any further words collapse in on themselves and turn to a throaty chirp instead, and then he's purring, low and raspy. His tongue presses up behind his teeth in a series of rolling, happy little clicks he's only heard himself make when he's wearing his mask. (Shinji had clicked back, and they'd stared at each other for a solid minute before deciding they'd have to have an entire conversation in hollow sounds in front of Hiyori just to really piss her off. It worked.) 

He's losing track of his thoughts again. They're all over the place, and near-inescapable until he makes himself focus on the pain. His mind wants to wander away from it. Escape. But he- needs it. 

_This_ is Ichigo, this is _his_ skin, his body, his teeth, and _his_ hands in Grimmjow's hair and in his grip, he's _grounded_ with fangs in his skin and reiatsu and blood pressing down along the arrancar's tongue and that's - 

That's so much. That's everything. He wonders if Grimmjow would claw along his spine, too, if he asked. Around his ribcage, make a mess of the scar tissue already there. Maybe they can do this again sometime. Maybe Grimmjow won't turn around and tell him he's a freak for wanting more of this. Ichigo has hope. 

Grimmjow presses himself down, teeth sinking through layer and layer of muscle, Pantera a rolling force in his ears like the thunder signifying an oncoming storm and it’s not until his claws pinch through Ichigo’s thin wrist, sending hot blood spilling down his arm to soak into the black fabric pooling at his elbow, and through his own palm where he’s clutching at Ichigo’s collar that he comes back to his senses. It’s the dull pain that pulls him out of the instincts that had him gulping down reiatsu like some fresh formed baby hollow. 

The sudden shock of awareness has him ripping his teeth away, fingers flexing for a tense moment before he forces himself to let go there too and he stumbles somewhat like a drunkard to create space, a mirage of self control, even as his hands stay raised, flexing against the air and the claws in his boots scrape against the inside of the metal toes. 

“Enough,” he grits out, even as he cleans himself off, “You ask me to do that again, and ‘m gonna eat you properly.” Blue eyes are fixed, predatory and wanting, on the slowly pooling and beading drops of crimson in Ichigo’s neck. 

The urge to lean forwards, the barest if inches and lap at it, drink it down, wipe it clean is near overwhelming.

It’s not the blood. 

It’s not even the reiatsu, really, though it tastes like god on his tongue. 

Grimmjow can’t quite pinpoint it, maybe he doesn’t want to. The realization that he _wouldn’t_ rip out that pretty little throat just because Ichigo asked him not to, fuck. It’s too much. When did he get so fucking soft for a _shinigami_.

Ichigo doesn’t move, blinking slowly, vision a little blurred at the edges. His knees feel weak, and he slumps a little heavier against the cool wood along his back, now that Grimmjow isn’t holding him tight and secure, and his reiatsu has a nice hole worn through his reserves, and he wonders what _that_ tastes like. If it even has a taste. Is it just a sensation? Filling up a hollow stomach?  
  
His hand shifts from where he left it against the closet door when Grimmjow let him go, and he presses his fingers delicately against the bite in his shoulder. It’s deep, nasty gouges and torn skin dragging down from the inelegant dismount where Grimmjow ripped backwards and away instead of carefully unlatching like he did on Ichigo’s arm. The air feels _icy_ along it, over still-wet skin, saliva cooling quickly, and the bleeding is very sluggish. He hesitates on healing it, instead digs his nails into the bite and hisses at the flare of firebrand discomfort. He’s still purring, that low rumble of pleasure.

“Y-yeah. Okay, sorry. Thanks,” he offers again, soft, voice more airy than he intended, and he closes his eyes to focus on digging his fingers deeper, making the bite _ache_. Compared to being stabbed, or burned, or shot directly through with lightning, it’s not bad. It’s not bad at all, but it does hurt, and that’s enough. (And it’s from _Grimmjow,_ so it’s automatically better than anything else, anyway.) 

Ichigo feels calm, when he drops his hand and spikes his reiatsu, black-red hollow tint flashing along his senses and bubbling up along the chewed flesh of his arm and shoulder. They swell with shiny new scar tissue and he doesn’t let it heal further, just tugs his collar closed again instead of shoved out and exposing his skin. He opens his eyes and stares at the other man in his bedroom. What should he say? What _can_ he say, after that? He’s already thanked him. What can he possibly offer in return?  
  
“I owe you.” He hums, soft. Presses a hand over his own sternum and the purring finally stops. He doesn't think he wants to go murder Urahara twice over, anymore, and the rage is a calm, patient thing now, logical instead of overwhelming. 

Grimmjow snaps his teeth and snarls, much too on edge to regulate those softer shinigami behaviors. “Fuck you.” Of course Ichigo doesn’t owe him shit. He just got a bite of the best tasting meal he’s had in a long while. “You just show up on time to our fights.”

His eyes are still transfixed on where the perfect ring of scar tissue is hidden by black cloth. He wants to peel it back and sink his teeth back through the meat again, shake his head until he can strip the flesh off of bone. Is there still blood on his face? Is there blood on his mask? _Oh,_ how _perverted_. Ichigo’s soul and life blood smeared all over his heart. _Heyyyyy Ichigo, wanna come let me eat you?_ Hmmm, he’s a bit delirious. 

He raises a hand to roughly wipe at his teeth with the back of his hand. “You still dissociating?” Because that's the right term for post panic disconnection he thinks. He probably used to do it when all those negative emotions swallowed him whole before he had a pack to stabilize him.

He used to come back to himself miles from where he started, red caked between his claws and drying on his tongue. Not sure how far he traveled or where he ended up.

Ichigo squints at him a little, cocks his head to the side in thought, and then his gaze trails to Grimmjow's mask. Grimmjow wiped the surface of it mostly clean, but there's blood still embedded deep into the curves and divots of bone and around teeth. He shouldn't find it as attractive as he does. 

"Mostly here, I think. Less floaty. You did a good job grounding me."

He still doesn't move from where he's leaning up against the closet. Zangetsu is an uncomfortable line up along his back, flat metal against his spine, but it helps keep him grounded too, and he won't complain about _that._

Grimmjow nods slightly, then twists to take a few steps over to Kurosaki’s bed where he seats himself, uncaring if he smears spit and blood onto the sheets. Another quick shuffle and he can lean back against the wall just below the window, one foot crossed over a knee, and blue eyes back on Ichigo. His weight is distributed delicately across the gigai’s thighs. He’s never sat in Ichigo’s lap before, but he’s starting to think it would be quite a comfortable place to curl up. 

He finds Ichigo’s eyes and nods his head just slightly towards the bed next to him. “Yer gonna have to get used to it.”

Ichigo frowns a little, eyes drifting from Grimmjow down to the empty face of his _gigai._ It relaxes the same way his body does, ( _used to,_ it's gone now, only Kisuke knows where,) and he drags his tongue against the inside of his teeth in aggravation. 

Grimmjow's _right,_ though. He's right and Ichigo sort of hates it. 

He shifts up away from the closet finally, moves over to the bed. It really _does_ look just like him. Kisuke did an incredible job, as usual. He really never would have known. 

It makes nausea twist in his stomach. 

"I know." He finally responds, sighs a little. He reaches out despite himself, makes contact with the gigai and shifts _into_ it. It even feels the same, the odd tug at his soul before he's blinking his eyes open, heavy and alive. Grimmjow's legs are an oddly comforting weight across his thighs. 

Grimmjow wonders if there’s supposed to be a _next_ in this dance they’re doing. If there is, he doesn’t know what it would be. Ichigo will always be the better of the pair when it comes to that, the feelings.

“Does it feel gross or something?” He asks as he watches the guy squirm back into it. Ichigo looks physically repulsed, a little green maybe. Like he might do that disgusting shinigami thing where they regurgitate out all of the stuff they just ate or drank. Grimmjow’s seen Yoruichi do it once or twice after a night of heavy drinking. 

Ichigo huffs slightly at the arrancar, probably sounding _much_ more petulant with the small noise than he really meant to, and grimaces. "It doesn't... feel gross, it's more that… It feels the same as before. It bothers me that it's _not_ different."

“You’ll get used to it. Felt weird when I first got a new body too.” He shrugs his shoulders, fairly certain that it’s not quite an accurate comparison but also certain that Ichigo needs to get over himself. “You don’t smell dead anymore at least.” 

Ichigo angles his head so he can narrow his eyes in Grimmjow's general direction before dropping it back down onto the pillow, in favour of staring absently at the ceiling. He's feeling- sort of good, actually. Calm, a little tired. 

"What, you don't like corpse smell?" He squints a bit to himself, wondering what, exactly, his dead body smelled like to Grimmjow's sensitive nose. He almost goes to ask that exact question, but he doesn't get the chance. 

Grimmjow settles his weight more firmly against the mattress (and Ichigo’s thighs) before noticing, his hand reaching out near automatically to brush rough fingers over the collar of Ichigo’s sleep shirt. His fingers curl and he tugs at it, pulls the fabric away from where his mark should rest in Ichigo’s skin. 

“Ah.” He hums when unmarred skin is revealed, and it takes neither thought or effort for him to shift until he's straddling Ichigo’s waist and leaning forwards to press his parted lips back against _his_ skin. He owns this spot. 

Grimmjow’s mouth is hot against human - gigai - skin. The scar is concealed. _Hidden._ It's almost a shame. 

"Oi, don't bite the gigai, it's not nearly as quick to heal." Or, at least, maybe just don't bite as hard? It could work. He doesn't know how durable the gigai is, if it's the same level of weak flesh as before or not. Still, he imagines that Grimmjow's jaws would shear through the actual physical body like it was wet paper, and he wants to keep his entire shoulder. 

Ichigo decides it's best not to risk it, and absently goes to shove at Grimmjow's head with one hand. 

Grimmjow doesn’t move at all under the pressure of Ichigo’s hands, just settles himself more comfortably. He doesn’t bite yet though. He’s decided that there’s something _really nice_ about Ichigo _asking_ for him. 

“Smells like dead things, Kurosaki, not very sexy,” he mutters against Ichigo’s throat, “ask me to make your skin match your soul.”

Ichigo scowls, cheeks going a little bit pink with a mix of annoyance and flustered embarrassment, and his attempted shove turns into him sort of- petting Grimmjow's hair, again. The texture feels weird against his human hand (not human. Not a human body), coarser and less soft than it feels in his spirit form.

"I'm not-" _going to ask you that,_ but he hesitates. Fucking _weak,_ he thinks to himself. Why wouldn't you just say yes? Who cares about the _gigai?_

"... Alright. Will you make my 'skin match my soul', Grimmjow?" His tone is dry and sarcastic. 

Grimmjow chuckles, a low rolling noise that sounds something like a purr. The flat of his tongue presses against Ichigo, teeth digging in so, so gently, not even breaking skin yet. 

His hands press and flex against Ichigo’s ribs, long fingers holding Ichigo down against the mattress. “Want you to mean it, Kurosaki.”

Ichigo shivers, just a little, and for a second he can vividly picture the way Grimmjow's hands could tense and then crack his ribcage, sink through his body. The _gigai._ Reminding himself that it's _not_ his body is probably doing more harm than good, so he glares up at the ceiling instead and presses his teeth together. Something like petty spite or stubbornness. 

It doesn't last very long, and his lips part around a sigh as Grimmjow tightens his grip again, brief and oddly reassuring. 

"Will you bite me? Please?" It's not exactly needy, or desperate, just a quiet little request. Calm. Ichigo wonders if it'll hurt _more_ , in this body. If it'll feel _better._ At least he'll still be able to hide it; if Grimmjow bites the same spot, it'll be covered by whatever shirts he wears. He does want it. 

Maybe he's a _bit_ turned on by Grimmjow's teeth in his skin. The thought of it makes his heart skip a little in masochistic thrill; he certainly enjoyed the last two bites.

Please. _Please._ Fuck, he said _please._ That’s -- Grimmjow bites down, moans obscenely when he does, restraint pulled too taut to keep him from cleaving all the way through for him to suppress the sound. The gigai is fake, but fuck if Grimmjow can’t tell the difference with it’s blood on his tongue, it tastes like _Ichigo._ Ichigo shouldn’t let him keep doing this. Shouldn’t let him mark Ichigo up all pretty under his teeth and claws. He’ll grow a complex. Get possessive. 

Grimmjow wants to eat him so fucking bad. Wants to have him. Keep him. 

Ichigo's heart does this odd lurch in his chest, right before it sinks through him and out into the mattress beneath him, heavy and filled with the _strangest_ mix of fear and delight. Grimmjow's teeth are _so sharp_ it almost doesn't hurt, an icy burn instead of jagged pain. He inhales sharply, and then Grimmjow _moans_ and moves his hand to press against the lines of Ichigo's neck. 

His hand slides up Ichigo’s chest until its resting at his neck, his thumb massaging the little divot between Ichigo’s clavicle and his long fingers tightening against his throat, and then his hand slides up further to press at the underside of Ichigo’s jaw and tilt his head forcefully to the side, granting Grimmjow’s mouth greater access. His fingers flex against Ichigo’s throat -- it’s so easy to hurt a human body, the gigai are no stronger -- he presses almost too hard. 

Almost. 

  
  


But he doesn’t because the gigai isn’t _quite_ as good as raw unfiltered reiatsu. The urge is less to satiate his primal hunger and more to claim. 

_His teeth_ in Ichigo’s neck. Where _everyone_ can see. Where… everyone can see until he puts his shirt on. No. That won’t do. 

Ichigo’s head tilts further under guided instruction, a little heavy handed, but it doesn't hurt- all the hurt is reserved for the way his flesh sticks and pulls along the arrancar's fangs. He shudders, chest stuttering in the way it rises and falls with his breathing, and his fingers twist slightly in blue strands, unwilling to let go.

Grimmjow softens his mouth on Ichigo, teeth drawing away to lick the mark closed and then he drags his open mouth up higher against Ichigo’s exposed throat, nipping gently once just over his pulse point - so so carefully, he doesn’t want to rupture the carotid - and sucks a bruise into the underside of Ichigo’s jaw. 

He tightens his grip, eyes flicking open wide (when did he close them?) when Grimmjow moves, drags his mouth over his _throat,_ exposed, vulnerable-- he goes tense, panic whiting out his thoughts-

Grimmjow sucks a hickey under his jaw and he relaxes again, then realises exactly what the bastard is doing and hisses under his breath. 

"Oi, people will _see_ that-" 

Grimmjow snorts a little, nips at the skin again and then pulls back, “yeah, that’s the point moron.” 

His hand around Ichigo’s neck flexes, and he watches his fingers. It’s kinda like a collar. His hand. Ichigo looks good with Grimmjow’s hands on him. 

How easily does the gigai bruise? He can leave hand _prints._

His lips curl into a lazy satisfied grin. “What are you gonna tell your friends.”

Ichigo scowls and very pointedly doesn't look at Grimmjow, cheeks going warm again. "Asshole. I'll tell them it's none of their damn business." He shifts a little, and the bite twinges with pain, making him grit his teeth reflexively. 

"Lemme go already." He mutters after another moment, flustered. 

Grimmjow digs his thumb into the slowly purpling spot. “No. I don’t think so.” He leans down to do it again. To leave a patchwork of bruises against Ichigo’s throat. 

"Oi-" Ichigo hisses and tries to press his head back into the pillow to escape, tugging again at Grimmjow's hair. "Stop, c'mon. You got your bite-" 

His breathing betrays him, hitching in his throat when the other man drags his mouth over another spot along his neck and latches on. 

Grimmjow hums a low curious note, but doesn’t hesitate to sink his teeth in again, just enough to bring small beads of blood to the surface, and smirks cheekily against Ichigo. 

“You taste good.” He shares after a while, hand squeezing again, once more, and then he smoothly sits up and off Ichigo, claiming his usual perch on the windowsill and planting his feet flat against Ichigo’s stomach, lightly tapping his foot. 

“You getting softer?”

"Fuck off, I am not." 

Ichigo scowls and sits up, gingerly pressing his hand against the shallow bite _very prominently_ displayed on his throat now, and then moves and shoves at Grimmjow's ankle. "Jerk. How the hell am I going to cover this up?" He absently prods at the _other_ bite, hissing softly. It's not as deep as the one on his soul form was, but it stings and aches, and he should probably get up and bandage it. 

“You aren’t.” Grimmjow presses his foot more firmly into the squish around Ichigo’s stomach. Maybe all stomachs are like that, just not Grimmjow's because he doesn’t have one. “But you don’t match anymore. You might need to get back outta the body and let me chew on you more.” 

"Really funny," Ichigo huffs, then tenses his stomach, and this time he succeeds in shoving Grimmjow's foot off of him. "Jerk." 

He shifts and spins, moving to get up out of the bed. He's pretty sure he has bandages in one of the drawers of his dresser, but he doesn't know about disinfectant. 

"I'm not getting out of this body just so you can use me as a chew toy."

Grimmjow jabs his toes against Ichigo’s side in retaliation. “So selfish, Kurosaki.”

Ichigo swats at him absently, then stands, squinting down at the floor for a moment before deciding he can do without disinfectant for now; he'll clean the bite when he showers next, change the bandages. He yanks the top drawer of his dresser open and scowls, digging through rolled up socks. 

"I am not selfish. You're just greedy."

“Hungry,” Grimmjow retorts easily, watching Ichigo putter around his room. He’s back in his skin, wearing it more properly now. 

He feels greedy too though. Ichigo has always been his prey but he’s not _food._ He thinks he’s probably flipped that switch inappropriately. Should not have done this. He’s not going to be able to squish Ichigo back into the neatly labeled box for fun little stabby plaything. He swallows when Ichigo turns away. 

"You're not allowed to eat me. Do you need to go hunt or something?" He looks over his shoulder at Grimmjow, closing his fingers over a little packet of bandaids and cotton patches. He tugs the line of his shirt collar to the side, moving his gaze back to the wound rather than the arrancar in his window. (Again. Grimmjow seems to have a thing about perching on the sill.) He prods at it, frowns. It's at an awkward spot on his shoulder, hard to look at without a mirror, and he tears open the packet and presses a cotton pad over the majority of the teeth marks at the front of his shoulder, squinting a little. He might need two, for both semi circles of teeth marks, but it'll be awkward to angle it properly for the upper line of his shoulder. 

“Why, you want something?” Grimmjow asks, eyes tracking, gaze pinned sharply on the visible marks, teeth and fingerprints overlapping in lovely reddy purple until Ichigo covers his work with padding. Mm, he should have held Ichigo down longer. Seen if he could get Ichigo to struggle, shove and claw and twist underneath him.

Ah. He’s offering to hunt for Ichigo. He’s having a lot of epiphanies tonight. 

"No, thanks." Ichigo hums absently, then gives up on the cotton pad entirely, chucking it into the bin under the desk, scowling at the red spotting on it and on his shirt collar where it overlaps the bite. Whatever. It doesn't hurt much, it'll stop it's slow bleed eventually. 

Grimmjow slips soundlessly off the windowsill and pads up behind Ichigo, pausing a scant few inches behind the smaller man, blue eyes trailing down Ichigo’s back and back up to his marks. 

“I wanna eat you,” he admits, a hand raising to rub the pads of his fingers over the bruising on Ichigo’s neck, pushing at the puckering flesh until blood wells to the surface and oozes down the side of Ichigo’s neck. He watches in blatant quiet fascination. 

His hand dips around the front, his other hand wrapping around from the other side, lacing at the front to pull Ichigo half a step back into his chest. He noses along Ichigo’s nape, barely brushing orange hair.

“If you run, I’ll chase,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin as he speaks, feels the flutter of Ichigo’s pulse under his fingertips, hears the beating of Ichigo’s heart. 

“I’ll pin you down.” He presses himself closer to the curve of Ichigo’s back.

“Sink my teeth in,” he tilts his head to the side, presses the flat of his teeth against the other side of Ichigo's neck, “right here.” Would you fight, Ichigo? Or would you pull me closer? 

Ichigo shudders, eyes going wide and tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth in nervous delight even as Grimmjow presses up against his back, tightens his fingers around his throat. The shallow bite he left behind twinges under the contact, hot blood cooling on his skin as it wells up and runs down. 

“You’re not even pulling at my hands.” Grimmjow tightens his grip, steps forward and pushes Ichigo into his palms more, loosens his grip again and drops a hand, wrapping over his sharp hip, thumb rubbing a circle into the layer of soft skin. 

Ichigo makes a soft, breathless little noise, pitchy, and digs his teeth into his lower lip, his own hands moving and overlapping with Grimmjow's, not sure if he wants to pry the arrancar's grip on his hip and neck off or- encourage it. He hesitates instead, indecision warring with stubborn annoyance and denial. (He really likes this. God, what's wrong with him? He should be frightened. He's weak, Grimmjow _wants to eat him._ He shouldn't - want to be touched more.)

Grimmjow releases his grip, pulls at Ichigo’s hip to twist him around. He greets the flushed ginger with a wide smirk and stares down his nose at the smaller man, his free hand immediately hooking around Ichigo’s neck to hold him close. He’s so damned warm against Grimmjow's hierro, it’s ridiculous how good it feels just to touch him, to be allowed this close. 

His gaze roves over Ichigo’s flushed cheeks, hunts for eye contact that Ichigo can’t quite seem to give him. His smirk turns teasing. “You want me.”

Ichigo scowls and puts his hands up, pressing them against Grimmjow's chest in an attempt to get some space- it doesn't work, because of course it doesn't, he didn't put any force behind the contact and Grimmjow is like a steel wall. 

"Shut up," Ichigo mutters, his neck shifting under the pressure of Grimmjow's hand, but he can't deny it. Grimmjow isn't _wrong._ It's just- another thing Ichigo isn't allowed to have. He's used to that. "You're the actual worst, you know that?" He sighs, resigned to being teased forever, now. Not like it was _avoidable._ He's never been good at hiding things. 

Tingles run up Grimmjow's spine, hair raising, adrenaline induction though his system, pupils probably blown - Nakeem told him they did that, black eating blue - the sensation of victory, of catching prey, a successful hunt. 

“Yeah, I’m the worst. Kiss me,” He demands. 

Ichigo goes red, gaze snapping up to Grimmjow's eyes in stunned confusion, fingers curling in the fabric of Grimmjow's jumpsuit. He blinks when he's greeted with more black than blue- _like a cat,_ he thinks, wonders why he's never seen that before. 

He takes a breath and leans in, going up on his tiptoes to press his closed mouth against Grimmjow's, a quick touch of their lips. He pulls back just as quickly, his face feeling warm. 

Grimmjow follows him back down immediately with about half the grace and none of the chasteness (and if Ichigo ever assumed Grimmjow was anything other than a virgin Grimmjow's sure he’s dispelled that illusion now — who else was he gonna fuck? His fraccion? They were all 5 times larger than him! — ) pressing rough lips back into Ichigo’s, head tilted to hold his mask away from the gigai's breakable face. 

He pulls the arm hooked around Ichigo’s neck back to slip calloused fingers through silky orange hair, rub at the points behind his ears that make Grimmjow melt (he isn’t sure where to touch Ichigo to get the same response), but Ichigo gasps at the sensation anyway and Grimmjow can take his time licking into Ichigo’s mouth, against his tongue, teeth. He has no fangs, Grimmjow notes absently, just flat enamel huge chunky teeth for grinding in the back of his mouth. 

Yeah. He’s so hungry for more of this. Greedy, Ichigo called him, greedy. But how could he not be. 

Ichigo drags his hands up and fists them in the fabric at Grimmjow's shoulders instead, tilts his head a little so they're not awkwardly bumping against each other and presses back into the kiss, even though Grimmjow tastes like blood. Like hot metal, and he sinks into the sensation of fingers in his hair, tries to get Grimmjow to slow down, just a little. He feels like he's being consumed, in a way, (but Grimmjow said he was _hungry._ )

It takes Grimmjow a while to find Ichigo’s rhythm, he’s too impatient, needs more sensation _now now now_ , and he presses forward, walking Ichigo back and back until the shinigami's spine is pressed up against the cupboard, first aid supplies long since forgotten. The hand on Ichigo’s hip pinches at his softness, rolling the little pockets of squish under his thumb as he drags it back and forth against Ichigo’s abdomen, kneading at the skin until his claws slip through the fabric of Ichigo’s shirt. 

Ichigo sighs into the kiss and then hisses slightly as the prick of claws make themselves known against his skin, and he moves his hands from Grimmjow's shoulders up to his hair, tangling in blue strands again and playing down to the back of the arrancar's neck. 

He turns his head, breaks the kiss, heart stuttering and skipping in his chest. "Grimmjow-" 

Grimmjow's shoulders hitch in response to the gentle touch at his neck, centuries of suspicion and paranoia ingrained in him, and he pulls back at Ichigo’s words to acknowledge the warning. 

Ichigo removes his hands, puts them back on Grimmjow's shoulders again, absently, and frowns at the arrancar, confused. He doesn't move from where he's pressed up against the closet, (again, in such a short span of time, too,) just looks at the other man. 

"If-" he pauses, searching for the words, "-if you want to- touch me, that's… Alright. But you can't slice me up." He doesn't understand Grimmjow's motivations in the _slightest._ He's still halfway certain the arrancar just wants to fight him to the death and then eat him. But- the kiss was _nice_ and Grimmjow was not wrong when he said Ichigo wanted him, because he _does_ want Grimmjow. (In a lot of ways.)

Grimm tilts his head to the side, eyes sweeping over Ichigo’s form, and counters: “I’m already touching you. And I already chewed you up.” 

The arm around Ichigo’s neck tightens for a second, the bone of his thumb digging in just above Ichigo’s shoulder blade, claws pressing against Grimmjow’s hierro instead of Ichigo. He unsticks his claws from Ichigo’s shirt, the fabric catching and pulling away from Ichigo’s skin when Grimmjow lifts his hand, until it tears free, 5 small holes left behind. 

He leans back down, crowding into Ichigo’s space, stealing his air, “and from what you sounded like earlier, I think you like it when I make you bleed.” He presses his palm against Ichigo’s chest, right over his heart, the thrum easily felt. The implication that Grimmjow felt his pulse speed up at his touch, his biting, (adrenaline or lust, it's hard to differentiate) is clear.

Ichigo averts his gaze again, too flustered to keep eye contact with Grimmjow when he's so _close_ and so _intense._ He struggles to stay composed, cheeks hot, and curses his body- the gigai, _and_ his soul form. Traitorous. 

"That's - not the point. The gigai won't heal as quickly, it can't -" He huffs, leans his head back against the closet door. "You don't have to tease me about it."

Ichigo feels very trapped. Scrutinised. He's never been good at controlling his facial expressions; hence the permanent scowl. 

Grimmjow nudges under Ichigo’s jaw, nose first - chasing after the sweet scent of arousal - teeth second and nips lightly at the skin before soothing the small pinch with the slow rasp of his tongue. “Not teasing. Enjoying.”

"Feels like teasing," Ichigo grumbles half heartedly, but he tilts his head further to give Grimmjow more room to work with a low sigh. 

Grimmjow laughs, a soft breathy chuckle and ducks back into the proffered space open mouthed and eager. His tongue feels rougher against the gigai’s much more pliant skin, drags a little more, pulling fine hairs and raising blood to the surface. Bruises bloom effortlessly under his lips and the tips of his fingers. He needs to be _so gentle_ with the gigai. 

When he backs away to find Ichigo’s gaze again it is only for a moment, only to relish in the swell of a blush in the shinigami’s cheeks and up his neck, to admire the slightly dazed look in his eye, and then Grimmjow’s dropping straight down on to his knees, hands kneading at the meat of Ichigo’s hips, his thumb rubbing a careful circle against Ichigo’s V-line. His grin is feral when he glances up at Ichigo’s expression through his lashes. 

“Wh- Grimm, wai-” Ichigo stutters, flush darkening and Grimmjow gives him no quarter when he leans in to lap up the inside of Ichigo’s clothed thigh. 

Grimmjow laughs again, this time more of a growl then a chuckle and the sound vibrates against the warm fabric of his sweatpants. When he bites, he’s careful not to rip the fabric.

“Mm gonna eat you _up._ Bet you'll taste so good in my mouth.” 

Ichigo makes a strangled little sound, his expression halfway between overwhelmed and _soft,_ and he shivers at the buzz of the growl through his skin, down into the meat of his thigh. His pupils blow wide, swallowing honey brown and he shakily threads the fingers of one hand through Grimmjow's hair, steadying himself with the contact. The arrancar is the one on his knees, but Ichigo still feels very much like he's the prey. 

Grimmjow’s fingers tuck under the fabric of Ichigo’s waistband, the elastic of the sweatpants offering exactly zero resistance when he starts to tug it down, the boxers follow half a second later and Grimmjow doesn’t wait for Ichigo to get over his embarrassed squawking (though he does relish in the hitches and shivers of Ichigo’s voice) before leaning forward again, strong hands gripping at Ichigo’s thigh to lift his leg over Grimmjow’s shoulder.

Grimmjow’s tongue feels like _heaven._

Ichigo thinks he has an out of body experience. And not the kind where he hops out of his body to kill hollows or the kind where he dissociates for six hours while pretending to read his history textbook.

No. This is the kind where he’s seeing stars, body long lost to his self control. He rides Grimmjow’s face like he doesn't care that the arrancars mask will leave a beautiful purple bruise on the inside of his thigh, like he doesn’t care if his family hears the moans and wails and ‘ _ooh FUCK!_ ’s that drop from his lips. For the indefinite period of time that Grimmjow thoroughly devours him, Ichigo thinks he might have found religion in his hollow's mouth, prayers dripping from his tongue along with the strands of saliva and the slick between his legs.

He says Grimmjow’s name until it’s the only word he remembers, and then further until he’s not even sure it's a word at all, but he _knows_ it’ll offer him deliverance. 

When Grimmjow leans back to smirk up at him, chin and nose shiny and wet, fangs on display, Ichigo isn’t even sure if this is reality. He’s not sure how many time’s Grimmjow made him cum. Just that it’s too much and he’s certain Grimmjow is a cruel king when he leans back in to drag him back to the edge with nothing but his cat-rough tongue and two merciful fingers. 

Ichigo’s never wanted someone to fuck him so badly in his _life,_ and yet when he asks, begs, please, _wails and_ **_sobs_ ** Grimmjow does nothing to abide him. He lazily palms at his own cock and crooks his fingers to physically pull Ichigo up the wall by his cunt and _surely his jaw must be sore by now._ But if it is he doesn’t let on, doesn’t slow, and when Ichigo _finally_ comes back down to earth, riding out the tremors and quakes from one too many orgasms, and Grimmjow sucks one more bruise into his thigh right over his femoral, the sun has near set and the room is as orange as Ichigo’s hair. 

Grimmjow is much too casual when he finally lets Ichigo’s knees buckle out from under him, grins widely once again and doesn’t soften Ichigo’s fall at all. He wipes his face on the hem of Ichigo’s shirt, licks possessive up Ichigo’s throat and braces around him, forearms against the closet doors. For a moment Ichigo things he intends to _actually_ fuck him and nearly whimpers at the thought. He doesn’t think he could handle that right now. 

But Grimmjow doesn’t press further than that. He nibbles for a few moments under Ichigo’s jaw, bites once again over his mark until Ichigo feels the thin scab break and Grimmjow can taste blood on his tongue. 

“You look good all fucked out,” he purrs into Ichigo’s ear. 

Ichigo swallows once, twice. His throat is still dry, and his voice is raspy when he says "You're the _worst._ "

“Weren’t sayin’ tha’ a minute ago.” Grimmjow drops his head for a moment, resting in the crook of Ichigo’s neck, “ya ain’t thinkin’ it now either. Don’t go throwin’ this meatsack out the window before I getta fuck it. It’s mine now. Yer just takin’ care of it for me.”

Ichigo glares, makes to protest and gets bit right on the mouth for his efforts, much to Grimmjow’s delight - the smug bastard. “Fuck you, it’s _mine._ ” He whines when his lips have been returned to him. Absently he realizes he can taste himself on Grimmjow’s tongue and the thought makes him hot all over again, cheeks reddening to an unreasonable degree.

“Nope,” Grimmjow stands, cracks his back, “you didn’t want it. It’s mine now. Got my marks all over it. The beds mine too, but I'mma be real generous an’ let you sleep in it or whatever.”

Ichigo flushes darker, unsure if it’s due to territorial rage or due to the heavy insinuation of what Grimmjow intends to _do_ with ‘his’ body in ‘his’ bed. “I- it’s - you-”

Grimmjow leans over to pat a hand against his head, dragging the fingers of his (thankfully clean) hand through orange locks, “Good boy,” the look he graces Ichigo with turns his blood molten, “stay good an’ I might even let you suck my cock later.”

Ichigo snaps at his hand with his teeth, an embarrassed growl leaving his already ragged throat, “I am going to _break_ _your_ _spine_ when we fight next.” 

His words have the completely incorrect result because Grimmjow smirks, interest refocused from sex to violence with no complaint. He still sounds downright sinful when he purrs back, “uugh, talk _dirty_ to me Kurosaki.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not yet. Not until I get that back breaking fight.”

“You gonna leave now or-?” Ichigo trails off meaningfully, temper rapidly running out the longer he sits around with his pants down.He struggles to his feet, legs still shaky and wobbly. 

Grimmjow doesn’t even think before steadying him, one large hand wrapping easily around Ichigo’s bicep to keep him on his feet when his knees threaten to buckle. “I think my work here is done. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Ichigo echoes. Part of him is disappointed. He had hoped… Maybe. Ah, Grimmjow would come back, he always does. Cats are all like that, coming and going as they please. “Yeah.” He repeats again, trying to catch Grimmjow’s gaze and failing. 

The arrancar’s attention, so focused on Ichigo not a mere few minutes ago, has drifted towards the window. Almost pointedly to avoid glancing at his own grip on Ichigo’s arm. When did it become so easy for him to just. Tch. Ichigo is so inconvenient. Worming his way under Grimmjow’s skin with nothing but a few heated looks and black metal plunging through Grimmjow’s skin. Oh, and his reiatsu, can’t forget that, could _never_ forget the way it tastes in his mouth, tinged by his blood and fluids. Grimmjow doesn’t even think Ichigo notices how well he just fed him. 

Silly boy, letting a predator in so close, letting Grimmjow put his teeth all over that throat, those thighs. 

Grimmjow practically has to pry his fingers free, absently licking at his jowls, the reiatsu is still so think in the air, Ichigo is _intoxicating_ and the sticky wet patch in Grimmjow’s pants where he came is going to start getting very uncomfortable soon.

Ichigo finally manages to properly get his legs to sort of hold his weight up, takes a deep breath and shifts. Some small part of him feels disappointed, when Grimmjow releases him, and he yanks his pants and boxers back up over his hips, grimacing at the way cold slick soaks into the fabric. "Ugh," he mutters to himself, then staggers a little, steps forward and stares pointedly at Grimmjow. 

"You gonna get out so I can shower and get new clothes?”

Grimmjow glances at him out of the corner of blue framed eyes, bland humor in his gaze. “I literally just had my tongue inside of you. I think we’re past the point of fake modesty.”

Ichigo hisses despite himself, tongue pressed to the ridges of his teeth, then pointedly turns his back on Grimmjow and rifles through his dresser instead. There's something off about the energy in his room, now, and he attributes it to the aftershocks still playing along his spine and making his knuckles go white where he grips at the wooden drawers. 

He feels tired, and sated, and a little melancholic, which is absurd. 

Grimmjow considers Ichigo for a second, eyes playing along the purple bruising at his neck, teeth marks that fit Grimmjow’s fangs _perfectly._ There is a bone deep satisfaction emanating from the fact that Ichigo is going to have a _really_ hard time hiding those. He could do with a few more though. Always a few more. 

Grimmjow blinks slowly at the shinigami’s exposed back - he _still_ hasn’t learned not to do that - and his hands find his zipper. He flicks his jacket onto the desk and peels the rest of his jumpsuit down and off his arms, peeling the sticky cloth away from his body and dropping the whole thing to the floor. He kicks his boots off alongside his pant legs and then throws himself bodily onto his bed, selfishly claiming the only pillow for himself.

Ichigo makes a confused noise, turns his head to watch as Grimmjow plants himself face first on his bed - naked. Those back muscles make his mouth water all over again.

" _Dude."_ He sounds genuinely affronted, pausing with a pair of clean boxers balled up in one hand. His gaze tracks from the discarded boots and jumpsuit, to the jacket sprawled inelegantly over his desk, where it's knocked over a bunch of pens. 

"You know what- yeah, whatever. I'm going to go shower." If Grimmjow is still here by the time Ichigo comes back, he's going to wrest his pillow out of his grip and possibly throw the entire arrancar out his window, clothed or not. 

Grimmjow raises a hand off the mattress and flicks it in a ‘shoo’ motion at Ichigo, before- “ah, wash my shit with you, yeah?”

"I'm not going to wash clothes in the shower. Borrow some pants or something, dump your shit in the hamper." And with that Ichigo tucks his armful of clothes against his chest and under his chin, opening his bedroom door with his free hand and vanishing out into the hall. 

Grimmjow lifts his head up with an annoyed huff, “my shits gonna be too stiff for me to get back _on_ tomorrow, Kurosaki. Cum dries hard. y’know.”

Ichigo sticks his head back in, eyes narrowed in blatant amusement and mouth tugged into a half-smirk. "I wouldn't know. Too bad for you." 

He tugs the door closed fully and represses a laugh, releasing the handle and padding across the hardwood floor to push open the door to the bathroom. He can almost imagine Grimmjow getting back into the jumpsuit, the _face_ he'd make. The image is, quite honestly, hilarious. The sort of humour that exceptionally fluffy cats getting bathed elicits, the reveal of their skinny, goblin appearance without their fur to cover them. 

Then again, the arrancar is just as likely to walk out naked. Cats are weird like that. Offended by the weirdest things, utterly unaffected by others. 

… He'll do a load of washing after his shower.

Ichigo comes back in not too long, feeling significantly less sticky, and entirely unwilling to leave the arrancar unsupervised for any serious length of time. It’s a good thing too because Grimmjow is only about half way through shredding his mattress. 

Shredding. His mattress. Shredding it. Shredding his very expensive nice tempurpedic mattress that he got for his birthday after nearly dying multiple times in a vague attempt on his father's end at helping him sleep through the nightmares. 

“Grimmjow.” 

The arrancar looks up, feathers and cotton hanging from his mouth as blatant evidence to the committed crime. 

“Shoulda washed my jumpsuit, Kurosaki,” he says around a smug purr, and leans down to rip another strip of the cotton mattress protector free with his teeth, his claws too busy kneading at the fluff, foam, and debris underneath him. “Fortunately, I am _so nice,_ I've fixed up yer nest.” 

Ohh, Grimmjow knows _exactly_ what he’s done.

“I’m going to kill you.” Ichigo decides, nodding to himself. “Thought maybe I’d keep you around for your mouth, but no. Definitely going to kill you.”

Grimmjow blinks at him in such a way to imply that he highly doubts Ichigo’s resolve and continues his kneading. “Nah. You still wanna choke on me.” 

"I'm gonna choke _you_ ," Ichigo growls, pupils narrowing out slightly in his frustration, "-gonna rip your dumb face off."

Grimmjow spits feathers free with a surprising amount of dignity. 

“Mmm, yeah, Kurosaki, you know just what to say to get me goin’.” He sprawls amongst the carnage looking much too comfortable and _incredibly naked._ He really has no shame. “You gonna do that before or after I-”

“Shut up,” Ichigo interrupts, stalking over to his dresser to extract a pair of oversized sweatpants, hurling them with deadly precision at Grimmjow’s smug fucking face. “Just shut up. I’m tired. I’m _sleeping._ In the ruins of my bed, but I'm still going to sleep, and if you try _anything_ I will _remove your eyeballs."  
_

“Only if you eat ‘em,” Grimmjow agrees and considers the pants, gaze darting between the grey fabric and Ichigo before shimmying into them - surprisingly unbothered by the idea of being covered in Ichigo's scent - with a hum and a puff of feathers. Best not to push the other's patience _too_ far. Yet, anyway. 

"I won't. I'll feed them to a stray cat. Fuck you," Ichigo mutters under his breath with a hollow sort of vitriol. It isn't genuine, and it shows in the way he comes over and shoves at Grimmjow's chest to make him shimmy across the apocalypse that is his poor, _expensive_ mattress. It hurts him, really. Deep in his soul. 

Grimmjow adjusts easily, “Yeah, I’ll get there, queenie.”

From this angle Ichigo can see that the arrancars lips are still somewhat swollen, and he fights back the sudden, needy urge to lean in and kiss him. 

"I swear we've already had the _queen_ conversation," Ichigo snips, and flicks the light at his desk off as he crawls into the bed, squinting in annoyance when several feathers float up at the disturbance. There's not much he _can_ do about it- or, at least, is _willing_ to do right now, when his body (is it _his,_ yet?) feels like heavy molasses. 

He yanks the single pillow out from under Grimmjow and turns away with a scowl, gripping it tightly even as he shoves it under his head and tucks his knees up, making himself as small as possible under the blankets and array of stuffing and feathers. 

"Good _night,_ Grimmjow."

Grimmjow considers him, then snorts and pulls Ichigo’s legs down so he can borrow Ichigo’s squishy stomach as a pillow instead. 

Ichigo makes an offended noise and kicks at him, gets his pointy knee into Grimmjow's ribs purely with luck. It doesn’t even earn a huff, human bodies - gigais - are too weak to fight an arrancar. 

Grimmjow pats his thigh consolingly, anyway, and nips at his stomach through the cotton of his shirt. 

One more shirt ruined by Grimmjow’s unreasonably sharp fangs, off to pajama shirt heaven, Ichigo thinks, and considers punching Grimmjow in the nose for it. 

"I despise you." He mutters under his breath, but it sounds like a lie even to his own ears, too exhausted to muster enough energy to even play at spite. 

“And I’m going to rip your guts out,” Grimmjow replies in a peculiar tone of voice. Soft and affectionate. Almost like he means to say three very different words.

Ichigo pats at his hair with a gentle sigh. The nest is… sorta comfortable. It's nothing like his bed. But still…. Sorta ok.. Makes him feel secure… Huh. Maybe Grimmjow knew what he was doing with the… the shredding thing. He yawns, jaw cracking and satisfying.

Grimmjow yawns in mimicry and Ichigo pats his hair appreciatively, much to the arrancars' drowsy delight. It’s kind of hard to stay mad at him, even if he is pretty annoyed about the new, only half finished divot in his mattress. Their bodies don’t quite fit in the hole properly, Grimmjow’s feet would surely be hanging off the end of the bed if he wasn’t curled around his stomach and legs. The shredded blanket doesn’t fit them both properly either, especially because Ichigo can’t pull it up all the way without covering Grimmjow’s head. 

He senses it’s going to be a long and uncomfortable night. He is never going to be able to fall asleep like this, he thinks, before he falls asleep. 

If Grimmjow presses his ear over Ichigo’s heart, relaxes into the steady _thump-ump thump-ump_ , a few times during the night - just in case - Ichigo doesn’t notice.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to Owari26 for Beta reading and to Quarter_Life_Crisis for motivating Moth and I into thinking this was worth posting! We appreciate you both so much <3


End file.
